Mine Enemy
by TXMedic
Summary: Doc blames himself when a wounded soldier dies. Please R&R.


  
  
Doc threw himself to the ground, burying his face in the cold mud. Another hail of bullets  
ripped the ground beside him, and he tried desperately to make himself smaller.  
  
Adrenalin seemed to have made his senses sharper. He could smell the rain, the smoke, the  
mildew-like odor of the mud his face was pressed into. He could feel the gritty mud beneath his  
face and hands, the pounding drops of icy rain, and the jackhammer beat of his heart. He could  
even feel his own pulse beating in his fingertips.  
  
But, worst, was the noise. He could hear the chatter of Sarge's Thompson behind and to his  
left. The deeper bark of Kirby's BAR sounded a few yards in front of Sgt. Saunders. Caje  
announced his presence near Kirby with the easy, well-aimed reports from his M-1. Across  
the clearing were Billy, Littlejohn, and Casey. Their M-1s adding to Caje's.  
  
From the trees ahead of them all, came the loud clatter of a German machine gun, and the   
sharp claps of German rifles.  
  
Despite the noise of weaponry, Doc could still hear the patter of the raindrops as they   
filtered through the trees and pounded the ground upon which he lay. But the noise Doc  
heard above all else was the screaming of the wounded soldier huddled behind a tree, not ten  
yards from the medic. In the middle of all the chaos in the clearing, flattened to the  
ground behind a rotting log and being torn in three directions at once, was Doc.  
  
"Doc!" Saunders spared a glance in the medic's direction before opening fire again. "Doc,  
stay down. Don't move!"  
  
Lifting his face from the mud, Doc glanced first at Sarge, then to the wounded boy behind the  
tree. Doc could see the blood spurting from the boy's arm, knew it was an artery and that the  
boy would bleed to death very quickly.  
  
The screaming. Doc knew he'd hear the screams of the dying for the rest of his life.  
  
However long or short that might be.  
  
"Doc, help me. Please! Help me Doc, please!" The wounded McKee continue to scream. as he  
tried to stop his own bleeding.  
  
"Doc, you stay put. D'ya hear me? Stay there!"  
  
Miraculously, above Saunders' yelling, McKee's screaming, the rain and gunfire...Doc could   
still hear Littlejohn's bellow from the trees across the clearing.  
  
"Doc! Billy's been hit. We need you. Hurry!"  
  
Doc closed his eyes for a second and, making his decision, was up and running for the  
tree. *Boy, if my track coach could see me now. Amazing how fast you can run when you're   
trying to outrun a bullet!*  
  
The medic was only a few feet from his goal when his head was snapped back and to the right,  
spinning him to the ground. He immediately rolled over onto his knees and scrambled for  
the meager protection of McKee's tree.  
  
Sweeping his belt from his pants, Doc slipped it on McKee's right arm, just above the elbow.  
The medic's chest heaved, fighting to pull much needed oxygen into his lungs. He made a   
conscious effort to slow his breathing before he hyperventilated himself into oblivion. Doc  
tightened the makeshift tourniquet until the bleeding stopped, ignoring the wounded man's  
protests.  
  
"Doc, stop! That hurts; it's too tight. Aagh! Stop, please!"  
  
The medic's hands flew as he made a quick check for more wounds. Finding none, Doc gave the  
boy a dose of morphine. Grabbing a pen from his bag, Doc wrote the times of the morphine and  
tourniquet on McKee's forehead. He quickly checked the bandage and tourniquet. Satisfied he'd  
done all he could for the moment, the medic shoved the pen and morphine tin back in his bag.   
Doc squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out McKee's continued screaming.  
  
"Doc! Help me! It hurts!"  
  
"Doc, you stay behind that tree! Don't. You. Move."  
  
"Doc, Billy's wounded. He's been hit twice. Hurry! Hurry!"  
  
The screaming.  
  
Doc was torn. McKee was badly wounded, and kept tugging on the belt as if trying to take it off.  
The medic didn't know how seriously wounded Billy was, but by the sound of Littlejohn's voice it  
must be bad.  
  
Doc wiped an arm across his face in a futile attempt to remove some of the mud. He didn't like   
leaving McKee, but Billy needed him. The medic looked over at Saunders, who was yelling   
something to Caje. Sarge turned and motioned for Doc to stay behind cover.  
  
Littlejohn's bellow echoed across the clearing, "Doc!"  
  
The medic in question was rocking on his knees next to McKee, nearly humming in his anxiety   
and frustration. Doc gathered up his medical bag and heaved an audible sigh. *Sarge is gonna   
kill me.*  
  
When the German machine gun turned its attention to Saunders and Kirby, Doc made his move.  
  
Keeping as low as he could, the exhausted medic sprinted for the trees. Doc felt an intense   
burning in his left side and hip, causing him to falter and stumble the last few feet.   
Littlejohn's arm shot out and steadied the medic before he could fall.  
  
"Doc, you okay?"  
  
Doc swallowed, feeling his heart in his throat. He gave a quick nod then bent over Nelson,  
who was holding his left arm and moaning.  
  
"Man, this hurts Doc."  
  
Feeling the burning in his own flesh, the medic had no doubt Billy was in pain. Doc fished   
a pair of scissors out of his bag and cut the sleeves of Billy's jacket and shirt. The wound   
didn't look bad. It was a clean through-and-through. Didn't seemed to have hit any bone.  
  
Doc sprinkled sulfa on the entrance and exit, before fixing a bandage over both wounds and tying  
it snuggly. He checked the radial pulse and finger tips of the wounded arm. Everything looked   
good.  
  
"Where else ya hit, Billy?"  
  
Nelson grabbed his right leg and winced, "Here, Doc. Right calf."  
  
Doc picked up the scissors once more and slit the pants leg up to the knee. This wound, too,   
was a clean through-and-through. After cleaning and bandaging the leg wound, Doc had Billy   
wiggle his toes. Looked good.  
  
"Doesn't look bad, Billy. You guys coulda bandaged it yourselves."  
  
Doc slung his bag over his shoulder and got ready to leave. Littlejohn snagged his arm before   
he could move. "Doc, what about morphine? Can't you give him something for the pain?"  
  
Doc fished around in his bag and came up with two aspirin. He dropped them into Billy's   
trembling hand, then reached around and grabbed the canteen from his left hip. Doc started   
to hand the canteen to Billy then, noticing the two neat holes in it, threw it aside. "You   
got water, Billy? Good, take the aspirin. It'll help a little; it's better than nothing."  
  
"Doc, why can't you just give him morphine?"  
  
"Littlejohn, I only have two ampules left and McKee needs it more than Billy." Doc sighed and  
reached back into his bag. "Billy, I'll give it to you if you really need it. Do you?"  
  
Nelson wanted to say yes, but something in Doc's face stopped him. Frustration and,   
inexplicably, fear danced across the medic's expressive face.  
  
"No, Doc. I think I'll be alright."  
  
"Good, good." Doc stared distractedly across the clearing. "I've gotta get back to McKee.   
I shouldn't have left him."  
  
Casey lowered his M-1 and grabbed Doc's sleeve. "Doc are you nuts? You'll get yourself killed."  
  
Doc shrugged his arm free and fixed the private with an angry glare, slamming a fist in the mud  
in frustration. "I hafta get back to McKee!"  
  
Littlejohn paused long enough to reload, "Doc, you barely made it across that clearing alive.   
What do you think your odds are of doing it again?  
The medic didn't answer, just crouched at the edge of the trees. Doc tried to calm his pounding  
heart as he waited for his chance to run.  
  
You see, Doc no longer heard the screaming.  
  
As Kirby and Sarge again drew the Germans' fire, the medic bolted for the tree. Once again,   
just before he could reach safety, he caught a shot to his helmet. Doc shook his head as he   
scrambled behind the tree. *Geez! You'd think I had targets painted on my helmet instead of   
crosses.*   
  
His breath caught in his throat. Suddenly Doc heard no sounds. The air seemed to rush from his  
lungs, there was a roaring in his ears and the world seemed to spin. He felt like he was on   
that crazy ride at the Arkansas State Fair. The one that made him lose his cotton candy.  
  
Doc's belt lay in a pool of blood. McKee's arm lay slack, his palm up...catching the rain.  
  
The boy's face was chalk white, his head tilted back and to his right. His half open eyes   
seemed to stare accusingly at the trembling medic. *You left me.*  
  
McKee had somehow removed the tourniquet and bled to death.  
  
The world came rushing back with the sound of an explosion, quickly followed by another, then   
another. *Grenades*, a remote part of Doc's mind registered.  
  
Time seemed to stand still. Someone was calling for him. Maybe, if he ignored them, they'd   
go away.  
  
  
Caje trotted over to Saunders, prodding a German sergeant with his weapon. "There's one more   
still alive over there, but the rest are dead, Sarge."  
  
Saunders balanced his Thompson on his hip, and pushed his helmet back. "Alright. You keep an   
eye on him, I'll check on Billy and McKee. Kirby!"  
  
Kirby stood, slapping a new magazine in his BAR. "Yeah, Sarge?"  
  
"Kirby, take a look around. Make sure we didn't miss anything."  
  
"Sure, Sarge."  
  
Saunders slipped the Thompson over his shoulder, and trotted over to where Doc knelt by McKee.   
When the blond sergeant got closer, he could see the new kid was dead. "Doc?" Concern crept   
into the sergeant's voice when the medic didn't so much as blink. Sarge knelt and placed a hand  
on Doc's shoulder, urging him to look up.  
  
"Doc, what's the matter? Are you hurt?"  
  
The medic looked up, but his gaze was a million miles away. "I killed him, Sarge. I killed him.   
Just as if I'd shot him myself."  
  
The weary sergeant sighed, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose, and said  
softly, "What do you mean you killed him? Doc, you did everything you could."  
  
"Did I? I left him Sarge. I left him to help Billy...who didn't really need me. Now this boy   
is dead."  
  
"Doc...you did more than anyone else could've. You did more than I wanted you to. Dammit, you  
coulda gotten yourself killed!"  
  
Doc slipped his helmet off, and fingered the two dents left by German bullets. "I made it all   
the way across that clearing and back, Sarge. I'm still alive."  
  
The medic stared up into his sergeant's face wonderingly. " Why is that, Sarge? How is it that  
I'm alive...and he's dead? By rights, I shoulda been killed. I had him. I had him fixed, he   
woulda made it back alive. I know he would."  
  
Doc slipped his helmet back on his head with a choked sigh. "But now he's dead. I left him   
and he's gone."  
  
Saunders shifted his weight, sighed, and glanced toward the machine gun nest. "There's a   
wounded German over there. I don't know...I think maybe he's hurt pretty bad."  
  
Nodding silently, Doc gathered his bag and stood to leave. Sarge stopped him, "Doc, you can't  
blame yourself. You did your best. That's all we can ask."  
  
The medic simply nodded and trudged through the mud and rain toward the smoldering ruins of the  
machine gun nest.  
  
Saunders watched as Doc made his way, shoulders slumped in defeat, to help the wounded enemy.   
The young medic had only been with the squad a few weeks. It'd been six weeks since Walton had  
returned to the States on emergency leave. In the weeks afterward, the squad had gone through   
four medics.  
  
One had only been temporary anyway. Two had been killed, and the last...well the last kid had  
been green as could be. The squad had been under heavy fire holding an O.P. for Charlie company,  
and the medic folded. The poor kid would probably never be the same again. Then...well, then   
they'd gotten Doc. The new medic came walking in as the squad was running out. They were on   
their way to help an ambushed convoy. There wasn't time for introductions, and the new medic  
had simply fallen in step with the others.  
  
When the fighting began, Saunders had been concerned how this new medic would react. He quickly  
realized that this was no green recruit. They'd no sooner arrived at the convoy and opened fire,  
when the medic broke ranks and ran to a fallen driver. Never breaking stride, the young medic  
grabbed the wounded driver and rolled them both to safety under the truck.  
  
The quiet medic had been heartily welcomed by the squad. It had been Kirby who'd christened the  
medic with the nickname probably 90% of the medics were given...Doc.  
  
Saunders gave a small chuckle. *I bet Kirby and the others don't even know Doc's name.* The  
sergeant smiled, watching as Doc worked feverishly to save the wounded German. It didn't really  
matter what the medic's name was. Here, he was...Doc. A man who worked just as hard to save an  
enemy, as a friend. A life was a life. Simple as that.  
  
Saunders was snapped out of his musings as Kirby came running up.  
  
"Sarge! All clear, haven't seen a soul...friend or foe."  
  
The sergeant gave a quick nod, then turned his attention to Littlejohn and Nelson."Good. Go   
give Littlejohn a hand with Nelson."  
  
"O.K. Sarge." The wiry BAR man jogged off with a grin. "Hey Billy! Wassamatter? Forget how to  
duck?"  
  
Saunders shook his head, knelt, and removed one of McKee's tags before heading over to see how  
the wounded German was doing. If the wounded man's yelling was any indication...he wasn't doing  
well at all.  
  
Doc had just finished injecting the German with morphine, when Saunders reached the pair. The   
sergeant watched as the medic wrote the drug time on the wounded private's forehead. From the  
size of the bandage covering the German's abdomen, the wound must've been pretty bad. "Doc?"  
  
The medic jumped, startled at the sergeant's voice. "I dunno, Sarge. He took alot of shrapnel  
in his belly. He doesn't seem to have any trouble breathing, so if he doesn't bleed to death  
internally...I think he might make it to Battalion Aid."  
  
Saunders dropped a comforting hand to Doc's shoulder and smiled. "Good enough, Doc. I'll get  
the guys to rig some litters. Shouldn't take but a few minutes, then we'll head for home."  
  
True to his word, Saunders had two litters ready to go in a matter of minutes. Kirby helped  
Doc load the German onto one of the litters, while Casey and Littlejohn eased Billy onto the  
other.   
  
Caje stood by keeping his M-1 trained on the German sergeant. The prisoner watched Doc with  
narrowed eyes,as the medic proceeded to tape the private's ankles together. The German sergeant  
took a step toward Doc before being stopped by Caje. "What are you doing? You can't restrain  
a wounded man."  
  
Sgt. Saunders turned to the prisoner with a ghost of a smile playing across his lips. "Speak  
English, do we?"  
  
"Naturally I speak English. I am Sgt. Miller, and I demand to know what your medic is doing."  
  
Saunders rested his Thompson on his hip and rubbed the side of his nose, hiding a smile. "I'm  
sure Doc has a very good reason for what he's doing, and if you wait a minute you'll probably  
see why." Of course, Saunders wasn't going to mention to Miller that he hadn't a clue as to  
what Doc was doing.  
  
Doc ignored both sergeants as he finished taping the wounded man's legs together. He grabbed  
a German helmet, carefully lifted the private's legs, and placed the helmet at the foot of the  
litter. When he gently lowered the man's legs, they rested atop the helmet. The tape kept his  
legs from slipping off. Keeping his feet elevated like that would help stave off shock.  
  
Saunders chuckled, and slapped Doc on the back. "Doc, you're a genius. See there, Miller, told  
ya he knew what he was doing."  
  
"Be ready in a minute, Sarge." Doc grabbed two sticks, about a foot or so long. He taped them  
to the head of the litter so that the two sticks formed an upside down 'V', making a frame at  
the head of the stretcher. Doc removed his web belt, took off his rain gear, and draped it over  
the wounded German. The coat would keep him relatively dry, and the frame kept it from   
smothering the wounded man.  
  
Sgt. Miller's face softened as the medic picked up his belt and slipped it on. "Thank you for  
your kindness." He nodded toward the form on the litter, "His name is Fritz."  
  
Doc shrugged, looking away in embarassement. "Just doin' my job, Sgt. Miller."  
  
Saunders wiped the rain from his face, "O.K. Caje, take the point, Littlejohn take the rear.  
Kirby, you and Casy take Nelson's litter. Doc, you and Sgt. Miller can carry Fritz."  
  
The men all took their places with the exception of Doc. The medic stood there, staring towards  
McKee's body.  
  
"Doc?"  
  
"I don't want to leave him here, Sarge. It's my fault. I ought to make sure he gets back."  
  
Saunders sighed and rubbed his face wearily. "Doc, they'll send a litter back for him. You did  
your best and that's all you can do. C'mon, lets get these two wounded to the aid station."  
  
The men hefted their burdens and began the long trek back to the village, each man wishing the   
rain would cease.   
  
  
They were about halfway to the village when both wounded began to moan with pain. Fritz's moans  
seemed to get louder with every step they took. Saunders finally called a halt. "Take five  
guys."  
  
Kirby groaned with relief and began to massage his sore foot. Doc checked the German's bandages,  
then moved over to Billy's litter. Littlejohn hovered worriedly over his young friend. "Doc,  
he's really hurtin'."  
  
"I know, Littlejohn." Doc fished around in his bag and handed Billy two more aspirin. "You  
still got water, Billy? Good, take these; they'll help a little."  
  
Billy grimaced as he swallowed the bitter aspirin. He smiled a little as Doc made the same  
expression when the medic took two aspirin himself.  
  
"Doc, why can't you give him some morphine?"  
  
"I only have one ampule left, Littlejohn. If it takes us too long to get back, that other boy's  
gonna need it more than Billy."  
  
"He's the enemy, Doc!"  
  
"He's alive! I aim to keep him that way." Doc picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder,  
wincing at the pain that movement caused. He shot the big private a look before returning to  
Fritz, effectively ending the conversation.  
  
The argument hadn't escaped Saunders. The blond sergeant made a mental note to talk to  
Littlejohn. This was only adding fuel to the medic's frustration and guilt."Okay. Saddle up!"  
  
Littlejohn replaced Kirby, giving the smaller man a break from the heavy litter. Kirby gave the  
big private a grateful smile before falling to the rear.  
  
  
They were almost to the village when Saunders called another halt. There was near-constant  
moaning coming from the wounded Fritz. Doc was trying to block out the moans coming from Billy.  
The medic knelt next to the wounded German and rested his hand on the boy's chest, checking his  
breathing.  
  
Miller hovered over them. "Give him morphium."  
  
Doc checked his watch and shook his head. " I can't."  
  
"You said you had morphium. Give it to him."  
  
"I can't! It's too soon, it might stop his breathing...kill him."  
  
"He is going to die anyway. Don't make him suffer."  
  
Doc stared up at the German, fury spreading across his face. "You don't know that! We're  
almost home. He's still alive; he might make it. If I give him the morphine now, he won't.  
That's not my decision to make. Whether this boy lives or dies is up to God, not me."  
  
Doc climbed wearily to his feet. He was cold, soaked to the bone and tired beyond measure.   
His left side and hip throbbed with every beat of his heart. The medic looked around himself,  
getting his bearings from the familiar landmarks, and glanced at his watch. Making his decision,  
he reached into his bag and pulled out the tin of morphine. He could no longer ignore Billy's  
moans of pain. Littlejohn was holding the young private's hand. He looked up at Doc's approach.  
  
"He really needs that morphine."  
  
Doc thrust the tin into the startled man's hands. If I could, I'd take it myself; my side is  
killing me, the medic thought to himself. "Here, give it to Billy."   
  
Littlejohn sighed in relief. He injected the drug and smiled moments later as Billy's eyes   
drooped, and the boy's body relaxed.  
  
They once again hefted the litters, and resumed their journey. Only this time, as if in answer  
to their prayers, the rain began to slacken. Then cease. The release from the incessant rain  
nearly made the men sob in relief.  
  
The sky was clearing, a beautiful sunset peeking through the clouds, as the weary group made its  
way through the village to the aid station.  
  
After Doc and Miller lowered their litter to the ground, Caje hustled the prisoner off. A   
doctor knelt next to the litter and shot Doc an inquiring look, while fingering the rain gear.   
The medic shrugged. "It was raining."   
  
The doctor looked up at Sgt. Saunders, standing quietly next to Doc, and chuckled. "Ingenius.  
Quite an inventive medic you've got there."  
  
Doc gave him a wan smile, and wandered over to see how Billy was doing.  
  
The doctor handed Saunders the raincoat, and motioned for two orderlies. "Hang some plasma,  
have some blood standing by, and prep him for surgery." The doctor wiped his hands on a towel  
and extended his hand to Saunders. "Cpt. Parish. You and your men did a fine job getting that  
man here alive."  
  
Saunders shook the proffered hand distractedly, before fingering several holes in the coat he  
held. "Sgt. Saunders, Captain. Excuse me a moment." Saunders turned toward the rest of the  
squad gathered around Nelson, who was being lifted onto a stretcher. "Doc!"  
  
The medic said something softly to Billy, then joined Saunders and Cpt. Parish. "Yeah, Sarge?"  
  
Saunders stuck his finger through one of the holes and held it up. "Something you want to tell  
me?"   
  
Doc shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably as the two men stared him down. "Yeah...um...I was  
meaning to mention that to you. But...um...well, things got kinda busy and Billy was hurt...and  
then McKee was dead...and...uh...the German kid was screaming..."   
  
Doc trailed off as Saunders sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. *Why me?*  
  
Captain Parish led Doc over to sit in a chair, and helped the medic out of his jacket, shirt  
and t-shirt. Doc sucked in a breath as the doctor probed his ribs near the wound. "Well, looks  
like it just scraped along this rib. Needs cleaning and stitching, but I don't think the rib is  
broken. Cracked maybe, bruised certainly. We'll know after an x-ray."  
  
Saunders fixed Doc with a glare as the medic shifted on the hard chair, trying to get the weight  
off his hip. "Where else, Doc. There were several holes in that coat."  
  
The medic squirmed and mumbled a response.  
  
"What?"  
  
Looking everywhere but at his Sergeant, Doc sighed. "My left hip."  
  
Doc seemed to find something intensely interesting in the corner of the ceiling as the doctor  
examined the wound. The doctor stood and smiled. "Well, this one doesn't look too bad, either.  
You were pretty lucky."  
  
*Yeah. Lucky. That's me.*  
  
Saunders paced angrily as Doc struggled back into his clothes.  
  
*Here it comes.*  
  
"Doc, why didn't you tell me you were wounded?"  
  
"What would you have done? I could walk. I wasn't bleeding much. I only had a couple bandages  
left and one of the others might've needed them, and did need them. There wasn't enough  
morphine and I wouldn't have taken it anyway." Doc shivered as he zipped up his wet jacket.   
"If it had become a problem, believe me, I would have told you."   
  
The medic stopped and averted his face. He was exhausted, cold, and achy. His emotions were  
dangerously close to the surface. "Sarge, I just wish...McKee...it just didn't seem right that  
he...and I..." Doc angrily wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, desperately wishing he  
could wipe away the image of McKee's glassy stare, as easily as a tear.  
  
Saunders laid a comforting arm across the medic's shoulders. "Doc, you have got to stop blaming  
yourself. You did what you could." He released Doc with a small shake and turned to the doctor  
with worried eyes. "Take care of him, will ya Captain?"  
  
"You can count on it."  
  
Saunders left his medic in the doctor's hands, not knowing what else to say. As he made his way  
to make a report to Lt. Hanley, it occurred to him that he and Doc fought two different things.  
  
  
Hours later, dressed in a dry uniform and full from a hot meal, Saunders felt almost human again.  
He smiled as he approached the bed surrounded by Caje, Littlejohn, Casey and Kirby. "Hey Nelson,  
how're you feeling?"  
  
"Hey, Sarge. Leg's a little sore, and my arm's stiff, but I'm feeling okay."  
  
"That's good, Billy. Guess that means you'll be rejoining us soon."  
  
Kirby laughed and nudged Billy, making him wince. "Ha! Listen to him, Billy. No rest for the  
weary, huh kid?"  
  
Saunders joined in the laughter, then turned when he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Capt. Parish.  
Listen, thanks for taking care of my men."  
  
The doctor's face was worried as he pulled the sergeant aside.  
  
"What's wrong? Is there something wrong with Nelson or Doc?"  
  
The doctor stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and rocked on his heels. "Well, it seems your  
intrepid medic had gone AWOL."  
  
"He what!?"  
  
"Seems that somewhere between rounds he slipped out. Know where he might go?"  
  
Saunders ran a hand through his hair, thinking. "Captain, have you had any KIA brought in  
tonight?"  
  
"Yes...they brought in several about half an hour ago."  
  
"Where are they?"  
  
"In the lane around the corner, behind triage. Why?"  
  
Saunders just shook his head. "Long story, Doctor, but I'm willing to bet my next month's pay  
that that's where he is. I'll bring him back."  
  
Sure enough, he found Doc huddled in a doorway across from four blanket shrouded forms. Saunders  
sat on the step next to Doc, and they both remained silent for several minutes, lost in their  
own thoughts. Doc finally stirred, shivering, and broke the silence.  
  
"He isn't here. He's still out there. Alone in the darkness."  
  
Sarge stared at the four forms for a few seconds. "Doc, you don't really think he's alone, do   
you?"  
  
Doc turned to look at his sergeant in surprise. Saunders gathered his thoughts and turned to  
stare into the medic's expressive blue-grey eyes. "Doc, what was it you told Sgt. Miller when  
he told you to overdose Fritz?"  
  
Doc clasped his hands together, resisting the urge to scratch at his stitches. "I told him I  
couldn't give him the morphine. That whether the kid lived or died was up to someone else, not  
me."  
  
Sgt. Saunders removed his helmet and turned it around in his hands. "You know, Doc, you and  
I...we fight two different wars." The sergeant ran a weary hand through his shaggy blond hair,  
watching the different expressions playing across the medic's face. "Me and the guys, we're  
here to fight the Germans, but you...you fight a different enemy."  
  
Saunders shifted on the cold, hard step trying to get comfortable. "Doc, you help wounded  
Allies, Germans, and civilians alike. You have genuine compassion for all of them, no matter  
what side they're on."  
  
"But Sarge, that's my job. I don't understand."  
  
Saunders smiled softly. "You know, being a sergeant isn't easy. Tell ya what though, my job's  
a whole lot easier than yours. At least I can see my enemy. But you, Doc...your enemy is Death.  
And I gotta tell ya Doc, your enemy is harder to fight." He replaced his helmet and gave the  
medic a minute to digest what he'd said.  
  
"What I'm trying to say, is that you're a good man. You try your best every time, and that's all  
you can do. Live or die is up to someone else. You have nothing to blame yourself for. O.K.?"  
  
Doc stared at his hands for a moment, then gave Saunders a tired half-smile. " I hear ya, Sarge.  
I'll be alright. I just want to sit here for a few minutes. Okay?"  
  
Saunders gave Doc's shoulder a gentle squeeze and a shake. "Just don't take too long, and get  
back to bed. You'll be lucky if Parish doesn't slap you in restraints." He stood and  
shouldered his Thompson, then walked back to see Nelson, leaving the medic time to be alone.  
  
When Sarge left, Doc wrapped his arms around his knees, thinking about what had been said. The  
medic stared up into the dark, starlit sky. *Death. Mine enemy.* Maybe so, but it's one enemy  
he'd always fight.  
  
Doc smiled up into the heavens, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from his heart. He  
would do his best. Fight for the Living. Remember the Dead. Content in the knowledge that the  
ultimate decision of win or lose...was in someone else's hands.  
  
Finis ð ô õ ö    ¶ · Ø Ù Ú Û Ü æ ç ê ë ™ š › õ ö í î ï I J J K L Å Æ È É f g h „ ýûù÷óïêåàÛÖÑÌÆÂ¾º¶²®ª¦¢žš–'ŽŠ†‚~zvrnjf ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c ] c(   
U] ^c( V] c V] c V] c V] c V] c V] c V] c ] c( ] c( ] ] ] ] &„ … † ø ù ú ß  
à  
á  
8 9 : ^ _ ` Ù Ú Û ª « ¬ Ø Ù Ú Û 7 ¤ ¥ ¦ û ü { | } þ ÿ û÷óïëçãßÛ×ÓÏËÇÃ¿»·³¯«§£Ÿ›—" 


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